


Authoritative

by out_there



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-23
Updated: 2008-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack thinks Ianto’s grey hair makes him look <i>authoritative</i>. (In other words: future UNIT-cap smut that got jossed by S3.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Authoritative

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all the enablers who wouldn't let this rest. Thanks to [](http://godofwine.livejournal.com/profile)[**godofwine**](http://godofwine.livejournal.com/) for the speedy beta.

Jack brushes a hand along Ianto's temple and Ianto can't help flinching a little. "What?" Jack asks, mumbling the question against Ianto's collarbone.

"Nothing," Ianto says, because it's fairly ridiculous. He knows this.

"Tell me." Jack nips lightly with his teeth, so Ianto confesses.

"A shopgirl asked me how long we'd been together and I answered. She gave me this look." She'd looked him up and down, taking in the grey hair, the slight paunch, the softness under his jaw. Ianto's thirty-eight, not ninety. Late nights might exaggerate the wrinkles under his eyes, engraving years onto his face. His joints may creak when he kneels for too long and his back may demand a reasonably supportive bed, but he's not old. "She said, ' _Well, that's getting them young._ '"

Jack laughs against his throat. "You think I corrupted your youth and virtue?"

"No." Ianto moves backwards on the bed, getting enough distance to see Jack's face. Still free of wrinkles and full of energy, just the same as the first time Ianto saw him. Still looking like he's somewhere around thirty. "She assumed that we must have been dating when you were a teenager. I've never felt so old in my life."

Again, Jack laughs. So heartily, Ianto feels it shake the mattress. It makes things better. "If you're feeling self-conscious about the grey hair, you shouldn't."

"Because I can dye it?" Ianto asks, deadpan. It's not much, a sprinkling through mostly dark hair, two patches of grey quite prominent at his temples. He's not sure if it's more vain to dye it or refuse to on principle.

"Because I like it. It makes you look _authoritative_." Jack's voice drops on the last word, and Ianto knows what that means from Jack.

Ianto shouldn't mock, but... "Grey hair turns you on?"

"Not in general, just... It makes you look powerful, commanding. It's sexy."

"I'm suddenly wondering if we still have that UNIT cap."

"It's under the bed," Jack says quickly.

Ianto feels himself laugh. After this long, Jack still surprises him, and somehow that doesn't surprise him at all. "You've done a bit of thinking about this, haven't you?"

"Oh, yeah." Jack kisses him enthusiastically, rocking their hips together as he presses Ianto down into the bed.

With Jack's mouth on his, Jack's hands curled around his ribs, Ianto takes a moment to consider. Then he leans back, breaking the contact of their mouths, and says, "Get the cap."

Jack grins like victory and scrambles off the bed. He kneels, naked and unconcerned, and pulls a hatbox out from under the bed. Of course, it's in a hatbox, Ianto thinks to himself wryly as Jack pulls the red cap out and pulls it on. "Is it my colour?"

Ianto shakes his head at him. "Stand to attention, and we'll see."

"Trust me, you've already got my attention," Jack says, waggling his eyebrows.

Ianto's had years of dealing with new Torchwood recruits. There's a certain type of person that works for Torchwood: stubborn individuals who want to learn but always believe they know best. In a crisis situation, a firm, commanding tone is needed to stop them from thinking and to make them act.

Ianto knows that tone well. "At attention, Harkness. Now."

Jack hisses in a breath but he's up on his feet, snapping off the sharpest salute Ianto's ever seen. "Yes, sir."

While the idea of giving orders might be a touch ridiculous, it's hot seeing Jack like that: back straight, naked apart from the hat, cheeks flushed and cock hard. "At ease," Ianto says, and Jack moves his legs apart, links his hands behind his back and keeps his shoulders straight.

Ianto gets off the bed. Under the shadowed brim of the cap, Jack's eyes follow his movements, watching him hungrily as he picks up the lube and spreads it over his fingers. Ianto walks around Jack -- slowly, taking his time -- and then presses one palm on Jack's shoulder-blade and pushes him down to the bed.

Jack reaches out with his hands, fingers spread on the mattress to balance.

"Harkness," Ianto's voice is low, gruff, so turned-on he nearly sounds angry, "did I tell you to move?"

"No, sir," Jack says loudly, clasping his hands behind his back again. He stands there, bent over the bed, chest against the sheets. His breathing is shallow and fast, head turned to the side, red wool still bright against Jack's tanned skin.

Ianto runs slick fingers down Jack's spine, sliding over ridges of bone. He keeps the movement terribly slow, even when Jack bites back a groan. It's a simple display of power. From the way Jack's chest is heaving, it works.

Ianto slides fingers lower, uses the same pace to push inside Jack.

Jack's fingers are white around his own wrist, holding his forearms tight against the small of his back. When he starts swaying his hips, fucking himself on Ianto's fingers, Ianto allows him a moment of mercy before gripping Jack's hip and holding him still.

Jack gasps out, "Please," and Ianto has to swallow before he speaks.

"What was that, Harkness?"

A loud breath and a clear, "Nothing, sir."

"Good," Ianto says, pulling out his fingers. He lines himself up and pushes the head of his cock inside. Jack sobs back a breath and Ianto pauses -- partly for the sake of power, partly to be sure Jack's okay -- and slides a hand along Jack's tense bicep. Keeping the other hand on Jack's hip, he pushes the rest of way in.

He pauses, so deep in Jack he thinks he could drown. He waits for a moment. He doesn't expect Jack to beg, but feeling Jack clenching and shifting around his cock, squirming and trying hopelessly to force Ianto to move, is its own reward.

He slides his hand across Jack's shoulder, and Jack turns his head to messily kiss it. The movement shifts the cap, pushing it lopsided on Jack's head.

Ianto slides his thumb back and forth along Jack's wet lips, feeling the shuddering breaths, the unsteady gasps, pulling Jack's lip free when Jack tries to bite it. He pulls out of Jack gradually, pushing his thumb past lips and teeth as he does so.

Jack sucks hard when Ianto thrusts back in.

Sharp teeth around the second joint; rough, pushy tongue sliding over the pad of his thumb. Ianto's self-control evaporates. He digs fingers into Jack's hip, into Jack's shoulder, and uses him, thrusts deep and hard. Uses the momentum and the angle to force Jack up on to his toes, to make Jack grunt with every snap of Ianto's hips.

Luckily, Jack's still as flexible as ever. Ianto wouldn't quite manage this position, and if he did, his legs and back would hate him for the rest of the week. But Jack takes it and groans, follows the urging of Ianto's clawed fingers and meets every slamming thrust. Jack's arms tremble behind his back, hands fisted tightly around each other. He tenses, breathing around Ianto's thumb, holding it between his teeth and clenches around Ianto's cock.

Jack comes, biting down so hard Ianto knows he's going to have a teeth-marked bruise.

Ianto keeps pounding into him, both hands now on Jack's hips. Holding Jack still as Ianto crashes and breaks apart. After a few twitching thrusts, he stills.

Collapses over Jack's back.

Pants for air.

Then he pulls out of Jack and half-stumbles, half-crawls onto the bed. Staring at painted white plaster, unable to manage words more than a syllable long, skin thrumming and his pulse pounding in his ears. It's such a familiar sensation, and every time it makes him think of the other times with Jack. Makes him remember the first time: different ceiling, full of the dark shadows of Jack's quarters, but the same disconnected sense of awe. Makes him feel twenty-three, amazed by the world.

Blinking at the ceiling, Ianto summons the energy to ask, "Are your wrists okay?"

"My wrists," Jack says, still flopped across the end of the bed like a dead fish, "like the rest of me, feel marvellous."

"Oh," Ianto says, breathing still not steady, "good."

After a moment, Jack struggles up and joins him on the bed. He steals a pillow from under Ianto's head, and Ianto notices he's still wearing that damn cap, although it's now sitting at a rather roguish angle.

Ianto pulls it off and tosses it towards the bedside table. It misses and hits carpet.

He doesn't care.


End file.
